Friday, October 31, 2008

would say that theHippopotamus isbalding, for no onehates a hippo, but the hippo, he is almost hairless.

If you were to see a hippo witha luxurious maneof hair you wouldprobably wake upbecause it would have to be a dream.

Other possibilties:

You could stay asleep,and watch him goto the barber and ask for a little ‘offthe top’ because heis unusually vainwith his rich, luxuriousFabio-like mane ofhair that you usuallydon’t see on a hippo.

Or you could die inyour sleep and no onewould know that youspent your last momentsin a zoo barber shopkind of place bewilderedby something that wasfrankly unusual, no onewould deny that if theywere with you and reallyexisted so that they couldlive to tell the tale of yourdreams at others. I wishthat could happen.

Or

Are you actually the kind of guy that dreams abouthippopotamus?

Or girl?

(You could be a girl)

Or hippopotamae?

Or river horse?

Caught you. A riverhorse IS a hippopotamus.HIPPO: HORSE, POTOMUS,RIVER. I am guessing, Greek.

Although that says moreabout me than about youor other even-toed ungulates–for example, I like hipposand water. And big, barrel-chested big guys. Hippos. I like hippos.

But I haven’t discoveredeverything I want to knowabout you and your dreamsfor now, and also I am tickledpink that they don’t killyou. I like you.

Later I want more.

For instance: I would like to know if you emerge from the river at dusk to graze on grass,gaze a little at the sun,and, if you do, sometimesdo you feel a little sad, and almost extinct.

Did you know that when Columbus failed to find land, his sailors embarked upon a mutiny? It’s true. Luckily for us, Columbus soothed his crew with a gently flowing cascade of words that rolled out of his mouth like honey. And when they finally reached land, the words began to float in the air, very unhoney like, until they finally and slowly drifted to the ground, catching the slight currents that would hold them momentarily aloft as though they were suspended by little beeswax parachutes.

Nearby, Native American Bees partook of this spectacle with great consternation and no bemusement whatsoever.

Honey is a sacred thing.

But so is laughter.

To wit: there is nothing more funny than watching Milton Berle do his borscht belt schtick. A man wearing a housedress and lipstick and smoking a cigar? Hilarious, almost holy.

The Kit Kat is the perfect bar. By every sense of the word there is nothing better at all. When you change a bar you run the risk of losing quality, and with the case of the Kit Kat Orange this is exactly what happened. The bar, although tasty, really takes away from the original Kit Kat taste. In fact the orange taste is so overwhelming you can't taste Kit Kat anymore. All it tastes like is orange chocolate with wafers. Part of the greatness of Kit Kat is the subtle taste of wafer, it's completely lost in this bar. If you like the Kit Kat, you might not like this at all.

"And every object that might make me fearMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubtWould make me sad..."

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

I like to think of my life as a very straight road that I am walking upon and not terribly quickly.

To my left are lemon trees–to my right, a field of corpses.

Please note that there are no lemons on the lemon trees.

How do I know that they are lemon trees? Better yet: how do I know that there are no lemons on them?

Can I not detect the natural vibrancy of lemons?

I am not walking terribly fast on this road. And to my right–the corpses do not smell at all.

How do I know that? Well, first of all, because the lemons don’t either, and so it would be easy enough to detect the smell of corpses if there was a smell, even if they smelled like lemons, and secondly, the corpses are alive–fussing and carrying on and winking.

You might wonder if they smell like lemons–natural, vibrant lemons. A reasonable question to ask.

But do not ask me: ask them. Quickly, before it is too late. Where am I and why? Everything says. You’re killing me, they say–but that’s no answer

On a road that I am walking, not terribly quickly, and so not so

Because I observer carefully (I don’t)or that I absorb deeply (I can’t)it’s just that I am afraidStop walking so quickly

Of what? Of the lion over my head plastered to the sky like a sweet ink transfer to a pastry. The movie is about to begin! Roar!

I stop to watch, which is easy–the wind picks up, the branches shake a little, everyone settles back and stops asking questions and closes their eyes towards the skies with a profound pleasure that involves all of us which we have yet to discuss.

a feather duster,brer rabbit, popeye’s arms, a flashlight I had as a child which made things less scary for a while, and a trembling clam that I never ate, I really couldn’t eat it, like lobster which I couldn’t throw into a pot and the kitchen I always left before I could hear the lobsters trying to get out of the pot, all framed against a blue sunny sky somewhere in new england

Monday, October 27, 2008

As I thought back to what made me happiest today, it had to be this photograph. Just so you don't wonder about it, I will tell you–it's a screen saver for my computer. But WHAT a screen saver! I cannot tell where the sand ends and the water begins–if that is actually sand, and if that also is actually water. And the sky! It looks just like–a screen saver, but a really wonderful one. One that is as nice as this one-maybe even nicer.

Of course there is barely any horizon, either, just a wisp of black with a grey and white gradient. It almost reminds me of a man's hair turning white. White from grey, that is. I have never thought to ask anyone, but I wonder if watching your hair turn white, from grey, is uneventful. I imagine it must be.

Why do I love this so much? It can't be anything about old men shuffling around forgetting where they live and waiting to die. I think there is something food related that makes it so wonderful. It looks like tapioca, and that is a fact. Tapioca in a sea of unfathomable and infinite loneliness. Or maybe grey ice cream. I wonder which is worse: watching your hair turn white, a sea of loneliness, tapioca, waiting to die, or grey ice cream. I am glad that I don't have to decide.

By the way, this photo wasn't easy to find.

I looked everywhere for this picture in my computer, and here is what I found:

• a construction worker with overly large lips

• a sun and moon mask, with an expression of vague indifference, almost haughty, vanitieux

• an assortment of photographs of black and white grapes

• 'Nice and Sleazy' by the Stranglers. Now there's a nice song

Then I tried a better key word. 'Pier.' And then I found:

• Étude Aux Chemins De Fer–whatever the hell that is. It's not about shirts, though, that's for sure.

• A list of things to do, ten years old

• a poem about taxis

• and, for some reason, every rough draft of everything I have ever written.

Finally, though, I found this very photograph. I know I shouldn't, but I have been looking at it for hours. I know I have other things to do–One thing that comes to mind is that I have to find the perfect transparency of a sizing chart for kimonos to overlay on a photograph of a sad eyed girl in a burgundy backdrop, for example. More on that in a while. Maybe after a cigarette. I am thinking of taking up cigarettes. I can't help myself: this picture is that good!

An old man with a dignified mustacheas a doorman at an elegant hoteland yet he has become too old to liftthose heavy suitcases so what happens?

He is demoted to washroom attendant dispensingpristine hand towels to snooty hotel patrons

This is what I hate about the 1920’s!

All the jobs were depressing, black and white jobsfrom all I have seen even if on such a day if a bluebird were

To alight on the old man’s epaulette and were to whisper“I love you” in his ear it would not matter for the bluebird

Would be black not blue and the words “I love you” so white so chaste so perfect and so needed right nowwould ascend heavenly in a white word balloon that wouldmingle and disappear into the opaquely white sky outside

Yes, outside Now the old depressed doorman is outsidetrying, naturally, to find a cold 1920 river to jump in and drown

In, a lake where the goldfish are, naturally, not gold, at all–they’re grey

Saturday, October 18, 2008

I have always admired the song HOLD ME TIGHT by the Beatles. I always thought it sounded like a sound from outer space, not really like the Beatles at all, and, even though it was from the '60's, it seemed more comfortable in the 50's that way, the way in which, in the '50's, so much was from outer space – not just Gamma Rays and Incredible Shrinking Men and Ray Harryhausen* and such but some of our best songs-like this one, and of course, I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU. Now what is particularly interesting about HOLD ME TIGHT, though** is that it is almost impossible to distinguish what instruments are playing. Yes, they are all playing–but what are they? Certainly, there must be a guitar or two, a bass, some drums, some hand clapping, but they all wash together underneath a single voice like a giant wave of something music. Outer space something music, which I bet made people in 1964 nostalgic for 1957, although I doubt that ever happened then–1964 was too much fun. And when I say 'wave' – I really mean it. It's aquatic and oceanic and salty and all of that all at once. And when Paul McCartney, or whoever the person or thing is that sounds like him sings "Don't know / what it means to hold you tight" I believe him completely, although I would like to try to know what it means. Still, I think that the wave is so amazingly big that holding you tight must feel like drowning, in an ocean, somewhere in outer space.

* Some people believe that God gives you a choice of what you want to be when you grow up and some people think that this never ever happens. I do remember the story of one man, though, who said to God: "I can't decide–I want to either be hairy or I want to be a house." This really didn't make any sense but God was all powerful*** and made the best of it and then voilà–suddenly there he is: a full grown man with the great name of Ray Harryhausen and he is thinking about a dinosaur drawn to a lone lighthouse by its foghorn and how it would make a great movie, and it did, thanks to him, mostly.

** It's interesting that my two favorite songs from Outer Space were written and performed by animals: flamingos and beetles, well, Beatles, which I guess technically isn't an animal or many animals. Also interesting is that the third song that comes to mind wasn't written and performed by animals, but it was sung by Eric Burton, who I think was in the Animals, before he was, I believe, in War, which is kind of a stretch from Animals, but still, it was a lovely song, called SPILL THE WINE. Some woman sings something in it way in the background, very mysterious and sounding somewhat other planety.